Dust
by OakeX
Summary: 'With footsteps lined with gold they walked; with fingerprints swirled in silver they touched; with lips that spoke words of magic they kissed. And so the fairy race was born.' Origin of the Everafters, with a tie-in to Puck and Sabrina. Oneshot.


**So this story has been stagnating in my Google Drive account for about two weeks, and I've finally finished editing it and fixing it up and whatnot. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Sisters Grimm series.**

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In ancient Faerie legend, there were believed to be two central deities: the sun and the moon. They were brother and sister, almost Grecian in nature; their behaviour was capricious, their relationship incestuous. Many children were born from them: star gods, river spirits, earth demons, devils. Creatures of purity and sin born from the flames of their passion.

But — as with most things humans give a name to — with passion comes conflict, and from conflict comes battle. They were married, yes, but they were also gods, gods with keen eyes and an insatiably lustful nature. Numerous lovers were taken by both sides, witnesses were silenced... Or invited to join in. When one god confronted the other, accusations were denied constantly, and they bickered. Bickered in the most intense sense of the word.

Such was the intensity of their arguments that when they yelled thunder boomed; when they stamped their feet boulders trembled.

Time passed, and their fights grew more common. Oceans seethed; storm clouds brewed; the very air was sharp with fury. Sharp, getting sharper, a volcano belched fire, an avalanche rumbled down, and the stars shook.

Men and women alike quailed in their sandals, and the tempers of the gods grew shorter. Smaller. 'Til finally, the conflict escalated, 'til finally they waged war on each other, and on snowy mountaintops two gods stood with feet planted, fire shooting from their fingertips.

By the end of it both lay slain on frosty ice, their godhood draining into the atmosphere, magic pulsing outwards in waves. Whatever was touched by this godhood, or this magic, was changed; transformed into strange, arcane creatures. Cats morphed into hellhounds, dolphins into sirens, dogs to harpies, humans to fairies.

Wings sprouted from the back of men and women, magic cascaded from their fingertips, they were the original fairies, the god fairies, immortal and all-powerful.

With footsteps lined with gold they walked; with fingerprints swirled in silver they touched; with lips that spoke words of magic they kissed. And so the fairy race was born.

X

Puck's sitting next to Sabrina on the roof, and as the moon's silvery light streams down on her he has to keep reminding himself that she's human, that she's not Faerie.

But it's so hard when she's sitting there with this dreamy look in her eyes, and her hair looks almost luminous in the light, as if light's being trapped in its strands and its rippling through her. A cool midnight breeze swirls around them, her cheeks are bright red; her fingers pale and small.

She looks... He struggles to find the right word. She looks... almost magical, to him. If she presses her hand to his will they leave silver prints? He wants to find out. When she exhales will her breath be silver dust?

He pinches himself to jerk his mind out of this weird reverie he's experiencing, these thoughts of moonshine; but still his eyes remain on her.

...

Sabrina's sitting on the field, a book of Faerie mythology spread open on her lap, and suddenly Puck bursts out of the river beside her and into the air, pink wings out and whooping with joy. Her thoughts stray from the book to the boy above her, and as the sunlight glimmers through his wet hair she's reminded just how magical he is.

His skin... it almost glows, like he's some kind of miniature sun, like under that hoodie and jeans there is a boy of fire, muscles that ripple with heat and flame. Heat radiates from him, it seems, he looks almost too hot to touch, and yet her fingers (splayed out on the grass) still stretch towards him.

If he lands, will he leave gold footsteps? She almost believes he will. When he exhales will his breath be gold dust?

She shakes her head to pull herself from this strange trance, these thoughts of firewater; but still her eyes remains on him.

...

He pretends to sleep, perched beside her on the tree, but his eyes peer from beneath half-closed lids and secretly he watches her. Tonight is a dark night. The moon does not show its ghostly glimmer, but Puck doesn't realise because the dim shine of stars and torch illuminates her in a way he's never seen before.

Her eyes dance, dance with light, dance with the fervour of written battle. They are so bright, brilliant. He can almost see the excitement building in them, they are like mirror coals, capsules of starlight, silvery-blue and elegant.

What stellar stones they are. If she blinks will silver dust drop from her lashes? If she cries will liquid silver fall?

When he finally sleeps, he dreams of silver whirlpools.

...

A thick wax candle, lit with flickering flame, is the only source of light in the dark house. A sudden blackout has hit them. He sits there on the armchair, playing games on his mobile, while she pretends to work on her laptop.

Her eyes slide away from the screen.

The only light you can see by is candle- and phone light, dim and fluttering, but she scarcely notices, because in the light his face seems almost ablaze. Fire licks his features as blood pools in his cheeks, his teeth gleam dully as he smirks, green eyes gleam.

Red, white, green, all become black and bronze as shadows and firelight dance across his face, 'til soon his face appears like pure gold.

Lightning bolts and Midas' dream, if he brushes against her will he leave gold streaks? If he's cut will ichor flow?

When she finally begins to type, gold soldiers storm the written battlefield.

...

Through the haze of dust, sunlight pierces, blindingly bright, and the sounds of war reverberate across the field. With every second that passes there is a cry, a scream of fear as a man is cut down, a hoarse hiss as a woman drops. Magic is thrown haphazardly around, with all their bangs and cracks and thuds; soldiers fall under enemy (or friendly) fire; the howl of the injured is cut suddenly short.

How suicidal must you be to come here?

Sabrina stands with her back to Puck's, sword raised, grimacing as a wave of soldiers march towards them.

"Just like a video game, aye, Grimm?" the fairy teases as they advance closer.

"Stop joking and focus." With a roar she bounds towards them, Puck close on her heels, and as one unit they advance like lightning. Enemy soldiers fall under each sword stroke, a yell as a thigh is stabbed, a gasp as a heart is punctured, the smell of iron is dizzying. Within minutes, the pair straighten again.

Sabrina wipes a bead of blood off her forehead and Puck sucks the cut on his thumb, both panting heavily. They turn to each other.

"That was a lot of men," Puck says.

"Are they all dead?"

"I think so." One stirs, moaning quietly, and Puck kicks him in the head. He falls still. "Dead or unconscious."

She scans the battlefield, keeping a wary eye out for any strays, and sighs heavily. "There's too much dust; I can't see what's happening. We're practically fighting blind."

Puck waves his hand dismissively. "Oh, stop worrying, Grimm. You forget I'm here."

"That's exactly why I'm worrying."

He grins. "We're going to be fine."

...

When Puck falls, swaying heavily with pale skin; when Sabrina sinks, her sword dropping from her fingers, there is no flutter of sparkling dust, no indication of immortality.

After all, what flows from their wounds? It is not ichor. What they bleed is not the golden blood of the gods.

They bleed only the crimson blood of mortals, wet and sticky and running out.

...

They are interred besides each other, on a grassy bank. When the sun shines, shines over their grave markers, the rich dirt remains monocolored.

Where is the shimmer of gold, the gleam of silver? Where is the magic dust of the sun, and the moon, and the stars?

Is it hidden? Buried?

...Did it ever exist?

Was is that after all they had seen, they were wrong? Their thoughts of each other not truth but dreams, of moonshine and firewater, mere drunken delusions.

Because what was his last breath? Nothing but air. What was her last tear? Nothing but water.

From afar, the god fairies laugh.

_Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust._

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**So yeah. That's the story. Thanks to Curlscat for helping me edit this (I've been thanking her a lot, but she is an excellent beta and writer), and thanks for reading.**


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